


1918

by alafaye



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 09:16:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2726966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alafaye/pseuds/alafaye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is 1918 and Watson has come home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1918

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2014 advent challenge; masterlist and prompts can be found [here](http://alafaye.livejournal.com/392757.html). This prompt is 'coming home'.

Holmes wrinkles his nose, looking into the microscope. No, no good. Not the result he wanted. But why not? All the elements were there. Every one the same as--

No, wait. Where had the lavender come from? Was it French or English? He stands and collects the package that came in that morning. Open the flowers, smell. English, damn it. He throws the box across the room and it spills out. Tomorrow is Christmas, no help to be found now. Even his own contacts, people who owe him favors--they'd turn their noses up at his request for _lavender_ just before the holiday. He snarls and paces.

Damn holiday. Damn the case for not being more pressing. Why did it have to be a cold case? Why couldn't Lestrade have picked something else? Something fresher--he'd love a corpse right about now. Blood and mystery and...

Mrs. Hudson, bringing up lunch. He scowls at her and she ignores him. "Telegram, Mr. Holmes. Your brother."

He ignores it. Continues to pace. Case, case, case. He'd go out, but there's so many shoppers out there, getting in the way, being loud and obnoxious. Children home from school. A case might come of this, but not now. Not yet. All he has is a cold case that cannot be solved because no one has any common sense or decency during the holidays!

Footsteps on the stairs. Coming up. Mrs. Hudson had gone--is she coming back? No, these are booted feet. Heavy and weary. Tired. Client? Hope so.

He spins and sits in his chair with a flourish, pressing his fingertips together. Calm and collected. Clients preferred it. Didn't like his manic moods. Not like Watson who had his own unsuitable moods. Well, unsuitable for the public, not for Holmes. Not for Holmes who wanted Watson in his entirety, his mercurial moods and laughter and tea and grounding nature.

Watson. _Watson._

Holmes' eyes snap to the doorway where Watson is watching him with a small smile. He's been injured--Mycroft's telegrams, of course, he's been sending them for weeks now and Holmes' has ignored them, stupid--but he's here, Watson is _home_.

"Holmes," Watson sighs. 

So many boys who haven't come home, so many crying in the street. Holmes had thought, once or twice, of having to go overseas to find where Watson had died. Seen it for himself so he carried it with him. Watson's last mystery. But no, Watson is in the doorway of their home, still in his uniform and solid and real.

Holmes stands and crosses the room, needing to touch. Watson lets him, lets him rememorize him, lets him commit this to memory. Watson does the same, hand cupping Holmes' cheek.

"You're home," Holmes says finally, laying his head on Watson's chest. "The war has been over for weeks now and you've only come home now."

"You didn't get my telegram?" Watson asks.

Holmes lifts his head, raising his eyebrow, and Watson's face softens into fond exasperation. "Oh, Holmes. How I have missed all aspects of life with you."

They laugh together and Holmes pulls Watson in so he can shut the door. Watson's bag is dropped to the floor as they finally kiss. _Hello_ and _I missed you_ and _I love you_ and _God, you idiot_ and then there is their bed--always, always, always--and clothes falling off and skin remapped and scars caressed and claims made.

Holmes takes Watson's tags after, pressing them against his heart, and Watson kisses his hand where it is pressed. 

"You can't leave me again, not ever," Holmes tells him. He kisses the tattoo, his family crest, that Watson had done on his heart, in 1914 before Watson left. "I'm keeping these."

"With these tags, I do thee wed," Watson jokes, eyes tight.

Holmes caresses the tattoo. "With this mark, I do thee wed."

Watson swallows hard and lays back on the bed. His eyes don't leave Holmes. 

It is Christmas, 1918. Watson came home, as he promised, and Holmes, as he swore, had not replaced his lover in the years that had gone by. 

It is Christmas, 1918, and they are wed.

Holmes lays next to Watson and breaths deep. As the breath leaves him, he finally relaxes. Four years of tension is gone. Watson wraps an arm around his shoulders.

It is 1918. Christmas. And Holmes, for the first time in many years, is settled. He puts a possessive arm around Watson's waist and smiles.


End file.
